


Goodnight Trouble

by dastardlywords



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dastardlywords/pseuds/dastardlywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack watches from the penalty box as the Flyers score in overtime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodnight Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> For Blackbird. I hope you like it! Please note I have no idea what NHL team Jack is going to pick, so I stuck him on the Bruins for practical purposes. Also, Jack thinks about his anxiety in a mildly derisive way in this fic, so beware of that.
> 
> Title and quotations from "Goodnight Trouble" by Sarah Slean.

I watched late night planes

Leave cool white trails

And my trouble took flight

Goodnight trouble

Goodnight

*

Jack watches from the penalty box as the Flyers score in overtime. A blur orange streaks up the ice and tucks the puck just around the tip of the goalie's skate, a disappointed pall falling over the arena as the light flashes red behind the Bruins net.

Jack feels the weight of the sudden silence press down on him like a physical thing. He stares up and the scoreboard silently, fingers tightening on his stick. The timekeeper holds the door open pointedly, so Jack moves, the rustle of his equipment impossibly loud.

In the locker room, he dresses silently, ignoring his teammates’ supportive touches and poorly concealed-disappointment. Coach stops by his locker to deliver a lecture far gentler than the one Jack deserves. He does his best to look attentive, but it’s hard with the echo of his father’s disappointed voice in his head, picking apart every part of his game that wasn’t good enough. The hooking call in overtime, the shot he whiffed on in the second, every backcheck that wasn’t hard enough, every pass that wasn’t crisp enough...

Jack carefully dons himself in his second-favorite game-day suit, soothing out every winkle and knotting the tie neatly. It’s the gunmetal silk one Bitty picked out for him in a boutique in Cambridge, the pressure of it against his throat familiar and grounding.

Jack packs away his locker neatly -- the equipment guy has a head cold and Jack doesn’t want to give him any extra work -- and lets himself out of the room without saying anything to his teammates. No apology he could give them would mean anything right now anyway.

Jack walks home from the arena with his head down, black wool coat pulled tight around his shoulders. The bite of a Boston winter on his face feels like penance. His condo is only a few blocks away, tucked up against the mouth of the Back Bay, but the walk feels longer than usual tonight. His fingers curl and uncurl compulsively in his pockets, gasping at something he can’t reach.

The apartment building is mostly dark by the time he walks up to the tenant entrance on the bay-side and lets himself in. He jogs up the stairs and unlocks the penthouse, tossing his keys onto the kitchen island then freezing.

His condo glows with fairy lights, artfully strung around the picture window facing the bay. A stately Christmas tree stands in one corner, bare but fragrant, and candles and pointsettas dot most of the flat surfaces in the apartment. Jack ignores them as he steps further into the condo and spots the small mound of blankets curled up on the end of his sectional.  Blond hair peaks out of the top, curling a bit at the tips.

The tight feeling at the base of Jack's throat looses with a spike of fondness and he toes off his shoes and throws his jacket over the back of a dining room chair. Padding silently into the living room, he takes in the small, delicate foot poking out of the end of the blankets with a tiny quirk to his lips.

Sitting carefully on the couch, Jack sinks back into the leather cushions and just gazes around his condo for a minute. For the first month after he bought it, the penthouse had stayed mostly empty. Most of his time was spent at the rink or on the road, so it hadn’t seemed worth the effort. Now the couch his mother bought him fills most of the living room, framed pictures from his Samwell teammates and mementos from his firsts NHL season littering the walls. A large cardboard box sits in the corner, a set of beautiful vintage pie plates waiting to be wrapped.

It's not the life he envisioned when he imagined playing in the NHL. Not even close.

“Jack?" Bitty mumbles sleepily, stretching out a little and bumping Jack's thigh with his toes. His eyes are huge and sleepy, eyelashes clumped from sleep.

“Hey," Jack replies simply.

Stretching properly, Bitty yawns and sits up. He looks adorably rumbled, shirt askew and hair sticking up wildly. Jacks chest feels strange just looking at him.

“I can't believe I fell asleep,” Bitty suddenly gasps, smoothing his hair down and looking distressed. “I wanted to surprise you, but by the time I drove down with the tree and finished with the decorations-"

Jack ducks his head and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth before he can think better of it, reveling in the surprised exhale he feels against his skin.

“What was that for?" Bitty asks when he draws back, face pink and delighted. It‘s been months since they started this, but he never stops looking surprised when Jack’s affectionate with him. It almost makes Jack want to show him how serious he is about this -- the terrifying breadth of what he feels for the small blond curled up next to him-- but he doesn‘t think either of them are ready for that. He doesn‘t know if he ever will be, honestly, but he hopes so. Bitty deserves that.

“It was a good surprise," Jack finally replies, mouth quirking. He can feel his accent curling around each word like it sometimes does when he’s tired.

It must be the right thing to say because Bitty beams and tucks his legs up underneath himself, leaning casually into Jack's side.

“I'm glad. I thought after that game maybe you wouldn't..."

Bitty trails off, but the damage is done.

“You know it wasn't your fault, right?" Bitty asks softly after a moment, turning his head to look up at him. “It was a soft call, and your goal was the only reason y'all made it to overtime anyway. Everyone knows that."

Jack knows he should agree and let it drop. It would be easier on both of them. He doesn't want Bitty reminded of the twisted up parts of himself -- that parts that are better than they once were, maybe, but never totally normal -- but logically Jacks knows that ship sailed long ago. Bitty knows. The entirely of the hockey world knows.

“I'll just have to be better next game," he says in lieu of anything else.

Bitty tilts his head against Jack’s shoulder, leaning heavily against his side. He‘d been so hesitant at the beginning about touching Jack, obviously unsure of his welcome, but now he leans into him like he knows he belongs. Jack’s hopelessly grateful. He’s always needed Bitty to be the braver of them, and he‘s rarely been disappointed.

Jack closes his eyes and lets himself rest his chin in Bitty's hair. He smells faintly like cinnamon, like always, and pine from their Christmas tree. In the glow of the fairy lights he looks spun from gold, nothing like the noisy force of nature who stormed into Jack's life a couple years ago and demanded space be made for him.

The game still lurks in the back of Jack’s mind, taunting him in his father's voice, but it's quieter now. The weight of his failures has to share space in his head with the smell of Bitty’s hair and the promise of Shitty calling him in the morning to curse out the ref on his behalf. His mother will call on Sunday, like she always does, and his dad will ask for the phone to tell him how the goalie in Tampa is weak on his glove side. He’ll tell Jack he’s proud of him too, and Jack will think maybe if he works just a little bit harder, next week he’ll believe it. His life is hardly perfect -- _he's_ hardly perfect -- but it's better now, Jack thinks. Good, even.

Maybe craziest of all, Eric Bittle will lie next to him on his couch that night under the light of an absurd number of Christmas lights and whisper _you'll be_ great _next game_ , and Jack will believe him.

*

I kissed my friend

And he took my hand

And my trouble took flight

Goodnight trouble

Goodnight


End file.
